


Home for Christmas

by SilentAuror



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Doctor John, Domestic, Don't copy to another site, First Time, Glasses, M/M, Romance, Series 4 Fix-It, Slow Burn, Slow Cookers, boeuf bourguignon, good food, non-angst, post-series 4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-26 02:00:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17132921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilentAuror/pseuds/SilentAuror
Summary: It's been eleven months since Eurus Holmes happened, and just one since John and Rosie moved back into Baker Street at last. With Christmas just around the corner, both Sherlock and John are slightly baffled when Mrs Hudson decides to give them a slow cooker as a "house-warming present"...





	Home for Christmas

**Home for Christmas**

 

They’re drinking tea in front of the fire one afternoon when Mrs Hudson comes up, her step a little heavier than usual to Sherlock’s ear. 

He’s typing a blog entry on the varying merits of different types of wood for domestic fires (the intentional sort) and John’s reading the _Times_ , the rustle of the occasional page turn and the crackling of the dry pine currently burning in the grate the only other sounds in the flat. He looks up when Mrs Hudson reaches the doorway, curious to know what’s altered her gait. 

She’s carrying something in a box: that explains it. “What are you two doing, then?” she wants to know, going into the kitchen and setting the box down on the table with evident relief. “Just sitting round here like a pair of good-for-nothings?” 

Her tone is fond, but John raises his gaze from the paper and sends Sherlock a long-suffering look. “Yes, and deservedly,” Sherlock responds mildly. “As you may recall, we just wrapped up a rather grisly triple homicide in Clapham last night. I think one could fairly say that we’ve earned a day off.” 

Mrs Hudson smiles. “That’s all right, then,” she comments. “Where’s Rosie?” 

“Daycare,” John says. “We kept her home this morning. Wanted to spend a bit of time, given how much we’ve been on the go lately.” 

Mrs Hudson wrinkles her nose delicately at the security camera affixed to the doorframe, pointing into the corridor. “Still don’t like that much. But yes, I do see why,” she adds, before either John or Sherlock can jump down her throat. “When every criminal in the United Kingdom knows your address and you’ve got a toddler on the premises, it behoves one to think of security. I just hope that brother of yours isn’t showing the footage round the office or anything like that.” 

“I rather doubt he’d find your comings and goings of much interest,” Sherlock tells her dryly. He nods at the box. “What’s that?” 

“Oh!” Mrs Hudson has seemingly forgotten why she came up, but now her face lights up. “Come over here and I’ll show you. Both of you,” she adds, and John sighs, folds the paper resignedly, and gets to his feet. 

Sherlock glances back at him on his way over to the kitchen. If John seems a little testy, it could be related to the way Mrs Hudson tore a strip off him the other night for how late they came to fetch Rosie once they got home. And after all that, she wouldn’t let John take her, pointing out – accurately, if not necessarily very tactfully – that he smelled of the sewers. (“I know that, but I also knew you’d be at me for getting in so late!” John had said, exasperated.) Mrs Hudson hadn’t budged, though, pointing upwards in the direction of the 221B shower and bringing Rosie up herself. John had complained through the open door to Sherlock’s bedroom as he waited patiently for his own turn in the shower, saying that Mrs Hudson had been at liberty to come up at any point earlier to put Rosie to bed if she was going to do it herself anyway, and Sherlock had merely let him rant. Always better for John to just get it out, rather than hold it in, he reasoned. 

Now, he turns his attention to the box, John putting himself on the opposite side of the table, hands on his hips. “What is it?” Sherlock asks. 

Mrs Hudson beams at them both. “I’ve brought you a present!” she says. “Think of it as a housewarming gift!” 

Sherlock stares at her, wondering if she’s suddenly veered into senility within the past forty-eight hours. “You’re aware, of course, that we’ve lived here going on six years now…” 

“Don’t be daft, of course I know that,” Mrs Hudson says, swatting at his arm. “But since John’s come home, it got me thinking. This is a new phase, as it were, and that deserves a bit of celebration!” She looks back and forth at them both. “Don’t you think?” 

Sherlock is careful not to look at John. “I suppose it is,” he says carefully. This is treacherous ground. 

John clears his throat. “Right, yeah,” he says, agreeing rather lamely. “Only… I’ve been back four weeks already. Rosie and me. Why now?” 

Mrs Hudson flounders. “Well… I just think it’s so nice, having the two of you here together again… better for you both, I should think, and for Rosie, too, getting a bit of stability at last… and I was a little hard on you the other night, John. But heavens, the smell that came in with you both! Anyway, have a look,” she says, gesturing at the box and waiting impatiently. 

It’s wrapped, though only in newspaper. Sherlock glances at John. “Would you care for the honours?” he offers. 

John shrugs. “Might as well both have a go,” he says, and reaches over to start pulling the paper away. Sherlock joins him, and soon the box itself is revealed. They both stop, staring at it. “It’s… a slow cooker,” John says. “Er… thank you.” 

Sherlock frowns at the box. “Is that what’s really inside?” he asks Mrs Hudson. 

“Yes, you idiot,” she says. “What else would it be? A severed head? Go on, open it!” 

Sherlock exchanges a minute look with John, his own bewilderment at the gift reflected there. “All right,” he says evenly, and opens the box. Revealed in all its glory, the slow cooker is precisely as pictured on the box. Inside the device itself is a booklet of instructions. “We’ll have to read these,” he says, and passes them to John. “I’ve never used one of these before. Does it… help to have the food cooked especially slowly?” 

Mrs Hudson looks exasperated. “Of course it does – cooking things slowly helps them tenderise! Besides, the point is for you to make something when you’ve got the time, then leave it to cook while you’re off dashing about, then come home and find yourselves a hot meal waiting! It’s programmable, see? You can set it to shut off after six or eight hours and switch to ‘warm’ mode. It’ll be terribly handy to have about, you’ll see!” 

This does seem to have a genuinely practical application, Sherlock thinks. “Well, thank you very much,” he says politely. “We’ll… have to find some slow cooker recipes.” He is very much aware that they haven’t cooked together very much since John and Rosie moved in, but Mrs Hudson won’t know that. She seems to be insinuating that they’ll be using this thing together, and it’s this assumption that could prove dangerous. Is this truly intended as a ‘housewarming’ gift, or… is it an insinuation of some sort, implying that they do cook together, or should want to, given some misperception on her part that their status has developed in ways which it clearly has not? Sherlock is uncomfortably aware of the need to steer clear of any verbalisations of such beliefs on her part, if this is the case. He clears his throat. “I’ll just… find a home for it, then,” he says, tucking the thing’s electrical cord neatly around the base and making for the long pantry cupboard, where there’s space on one of the lower shelves. He dutifully stows it there, then shuts the door. “Tea?” he offers, trying to sound as though he isn’t attempting to redirect the conversation. 

Mrs Hudson waves this off. “No thanks, I’ve got to go and meet my friend Lila. She wants to show me some shop or other, so we’re meeting up for tea first. You two go ahead.” She favours them with a smile and Sherlock thinks uneasily of her choice of the _you two_ wording. It’s impossible to know whether she intends to sound as though she means it that way or not. 

Sherlock looks at John, who shrugs. “Can’t hurt,” Sherlock decides, and goes to fill the kettle and plug it in. 

Mrs Hudson lingers a little longer, seemingly trying to smooth things over with John, and he puts a good face on it and chats back. Sherlock hangs back in the kitchen, obscurely watching the two of them. It’s not difficult for John; he’s genuinely very fond of Mrs Hudson in all of her peculiarities, and her heart is in the right place, in spite of her occasionally-sharp tongue. John says something dry and Mrs Hudson cackles and pats him on the shoulder, looking back at Sherlock as though to confirm that what John said was indeed very funny, but he wasn’t listening to the particulars and can only offer a vague smile back. 

Mrs Hudson gets hold of her laughter. “Anyway, I’ll be by later on, or tomorrow, with those lights,” she promises, and John says something to agree with this. 

“Lights?” Sherlock repeats blankly. 

“Christmas lights, dear,” Mrs Hudson says. “It’s already the twelfth of December! About time you decorated for the season!”

Sherlock sighs. “About time _you_ decorated _our_ flat for the season, as you do every year,” he corrects her. 

“Well, if you’re not going to be bothered to do it yourselves, you leave me little choice. And then I’ve got to get started on my holiday baking,” Mrs Hudson says, as though only just remembering. “You’ll like _that_ bit, at least.” 

Sherlock doesn’t try to keep his face from brightening at this. Mrs Hudson’s mince pies are superlative, along with her sugar cookies, raspberry jam tart, and Christmas cake. “Well then, if you must,” he says diffidently, but neither Mrs Hudson nor John are fooled by his levity, John snorting overtly. 

“He’ll eat half of it the same day you bring it up,” he tells Mrs Hudson, who grins at Sherlock. 

He shoos her toward the stairs. “You’ve got lipstick on your teeth,” he tells her crossly, but this only makes her laugh. She departs at last, and Sherlock goes to deposit himself in his chair across from John. “Giving away all my secrets,” he complains, but it’s meant as a joke. 

John has already re-opened the _Times_ and smiles at it. “As if I’ll ever get to the end of those,” he says, lightly enough. 

There are no thorns in it, though. They’ve had all of those conversations, months before John finally moved back in, Rosie in tow. It’s been eleven months since all of the drama died down: eleven months of watching John juggle Rosie’s caregivers even after she started daycare, of having taxis ‘swing by’ Mary’s flat in the suburbs on their way to a crime scene, resulting in some truly outrageous cab fares, not that it ever mattered: having John there was always well worth it. They talked, cautiously at first, then with gradually greater ease. They’ve talked about all of it now: Moriarty and the snipers that day at Bart’s Hospital, Sherlock’s time away, Mary, her death, Eurus, Sherlock’s family history, all of it. They’ve both apologised, in depth, and forgiven one another. There’s one subject they’ve never broached, though, and likely never will, and that’s fine, Sherlock tells himself. John is home: back where he belongs. He came back on the first of November, the sale of the flat going through sometime after that. It’s been an adjustment, particularly having a nearly-two-year-old underfoot, but she’s also out of the house for much of the day, and goes to bed early enough that it’s really only supper that gets disrupted. It’s fine. In fact, not as bad as he’d privately feared – a fee to be endured for the sake of having John back. In reality, it’s been better than that, though obviously still an occasional inconvenience. The security measures alone, for instance, but it was he who insisted on that. The last thing he wants is for John to decide that Baker Street isn’t safe enough for his daughter after all, and to use it as a reason to leave again. 

After all, there is no length to which Sherlock would not go to prevent that from happening, not that he would ever admit it aloud. He opens his laptop again. “I imagine you will,” he says in response to what John said, about getting to the bottom of his secrets. John looks over at him, a bit pointedly, but smiling. “One day,” Sherlock adds, smiling back, but directing the smile at the screen of his computer. In the kitchen, the kettle begins to whistle. He sets the laptop aside and picks up their nearly-empty teapot, the cold tea sloshing around inside it. “What would you like?” he asks, getting up and gesturing with it. 

John’s already made a decision. “Let’s try that new one you bought the other day,” he proposes. “The strawberry cream one. That sounded delicious.” 

Sherlock’s forgotten that he bought it already. “Oh – certainly,” he says, and sets about preparing it. This is actually just right, he reflects. He and John, a fire burning, another difficult case satisfactorily wrapped up, and now a new flavour of tea: life is just about perfect now. 

*** 

“Well, that’s another one for the blog,” John says with satisfaction, smirking in the direction of their perpetrator, now being cuffed by Lestrade and charged by Donovan. “Think I’ll call it ‘The Idiot Diaries’.” 

Sherlock’s laugh comes out his nose. “It’s more than apt. What kind of idiot writes about his crimes in his _diary_ , for God’s sake?” 

“Hey!” The thief glares at them. 

“Only a very stupid one, or a very egotistical one,” John says to Sherlock, ignoring the man. 

“Or both. Or a very forgetful one,” Sherlock adds thoughtfully, as Lestrade chuckles. “Come on. Let’s go and find something for dinner. Molly got Rosie from daycare, right?” 

“Right, and she said she was free all evening,” John says, grinning. “What do you feel like?” 

“Well, we’re in Camden,” Sherlock says, hoping that John will take the bait, and he does. 

His face lights up. “Oh God yes – please tell me you’re thinking Calcutta Cottage!” 

Sherlock beams. “I was hoping you felt like Indian. Shall we?” He turns and they stride off in the direction of the restaurant, leaving Lestrade and his team behind with the perpetrator. 

“Such a good idea,” John declares as they make their way happily down the pavement, ducking around other passersby. “It’s not even all that late yet.” 

“No, just after eight,” Sherlock agrees. “We’ll have just missed the supper rush.” 

“I always forget about this place, how much I love it,” John says over his shoulder as he pushes through the doorway. 

They’re seated immediately, given a prime window table overlooking Camden Road. Sherlock takes off his coat and hangs it on a hook just behind his chair and sits down, pulling his menu toward himself with a sense of pleased anticipation. He debates his choices for a few minutes. “What are you thinking of?” he asks. 

John making a thinking sound, squinting at the menu. “I’m torn between the butter chicken and the navrattan korma. Although I was also thinking about saag paneer, but I don’t see it. And the giant samosa, of course. God, I’m starving!” 

Sherlock smirks. The giant samosa is a perennial favourite of both of theirs; Calcutta Cottage makes a famously large and delicious samosa, the potato filling inside so soft as to be nearly mashed, the spice pods and crispy pastry the perfect offsets in texture. “Naturally,” he says. “But the saag paneer is right there, second from the bottom on page two.” 

John is still frowning and squinting. “Oh,” he says, after a moment. “Down there.” He clears his throat. 

Sherlock feels his face mirroring John’s frown. “Are you having trouble reading the menu?” he asks in concern. The restaurant is always dimly-lit, part of its unique ambiance, but there’s the streetlight coming in from Camden Road, too. 

“No, of course not,” John says, a little too forcefully. He closes his menu. “You always say that my first inclination is the truest one. Do you want to share the butter chicken and the navrattan korma? Or were you thinking of something else?” 

Sherlock notices the obvious change in subject but lets it go without comment. (Is John unusually sensitive about his vision or something? It would hardly be unusual for a man in his early forties to need reading glasses, but perhaps he would resent having this pointed out.) “No, that’s what we always order,” he says mildly. “Let’s get that. And the giant samosas, of course. With a side of naan, I assume?” 

“Of course naan,” John says, his shoulders relaxing visibly. “And maybe some basmati?” 

“Done.” Sherlock closes his menu and looks around the restaurant admiringly. “I’d forgotten how loud the décor is in here.” 

John grins. “I hadn’t. I kind of love it. Mary would have hated it, though. I never brought her here.”

“She also wasn’t particularly fond of Indian cuisine,” Sherlock points out, smiling a bit wryly at the memory of the one time John suggested the three of them order in Indian, and Mary’s extremely unenthusiastic response. 

“Yeah, well, that should have been the first deal-breaker,” John says lightly. Their server approaches, and John glances at Sherlock, so Sherlock places their order and the man departs, filling their water glasses and absenting himself again. 

“It might have proven a good initial filter, perhaps,” Sherlock says, careful not to word it as an option for future use. Thus far, John has shown surprisingly few signs of interest in dating again, but then again, he often did keep that part of his life secret, springing the news of a new girlfriend every few months (or weeks) on Sherlock as a fait accompli. Now, Sherlock wonders how it took him so long to realise why the news was unfailingly unsettling, if not downright unwelcome. It’s a possibility he lives in a somewhat constant state of uneasiness over. Then again, John doesn’t seem particularly inclined to go through another large upheaval, having so recently done that in favour of returning to Baker Street. Time will tell, Sherlock supposes.

John is agreeing with him, meanwhile. “Yes. Failure to appreciate a good samosa should have been on my list of mandatory requirements from the start.” 

Sherlock smiles slightly and notes John’s use of the past conditional. “Quite,” he says. He looks out the window at the people going by. So many of them, alone or in pairs or small groups. Everyone assigned that way, solo or with their own little social pack. He remembers his solo days vividly – after all, he’s only just emerged from them once again. He likes this pairing: himself and John. He would like very much to keep it on a permanent basis in almost any form, but he knows better than to ask. It’s enough that John’s come home. It is. It has to be. 

John begins to talk about the case they just solved and Sherlock comes out of his reverie to join in until the server returns with their samosas: fully the size of a side plate and piping hot, the server beaming with pride as though he made them himself. Sherlock can smell the cumin seeds and the hot grease of the pastry and his mouth begins to water. Yes: this was a very good idea, coming here. 

*** 

He’s working on something the following week, alone in the house. John is at one of the clinics that he works at part-time, Rosie is at daycare, and Mrs Hudson is shopping or some such thing. Sherlock dextrously tips a test tube of potassium chlorate into the solution nested inside the brick sitting on the table, and waits. The wait is short, however: the explosion is immediate. 

When he comes to, he’s on his back on the kitchen floor and can’t see out of his right eye when he opens it. Touching it, his hand comes away wet and very red: ah. He’s bleeding, then. That would explain it. Sherlock pats at his face and locates the source of the blood, which is coming from a large cut on his forehead an inch above his eyebrow. He gets up gingerly, swaying on his feet. There are bits and pieces of brick all over the kitchen floor and on the table. Not good. He’ll have to clean that up before John comes home with Rosie. Perhaps he should also put the ammonium chloride and potassium chlorate away. The experiment has proven his point to Mycroft that their current security features are inadequate in the potential case of explosives, though Mycroft annoyingly insists that his security perimeter would detect any breaches long before any such explosive could possibly be detonated. That’s beside the point: brick is insufficient to withstand even this mild explosion. He picks up the container of ammonium chloride and can’t remember why he did so, squinting out of his left eye. Oh. The lid. Where is the lid? Sherlock finds it on the counter and closes the container, then does the same for the potassium chlorate. He’s standing on pieces of brick in his bare feet. Belatedly, he realises that it hurts. 

He stumbles down the corridor into the bathroom and gapes at himself in slight dismay: the laceration is larger than he realised and the entire right side of his face is covered in blood. There is reddish brick dust on his face and in his hair and he looks terrible. In addition, he’s still bleeding, copiously. For a moment he can’t think what to do. He reaches confusedly for a wad of toilet paper and holds it to the cut, then turns on the taps and wets a flannel with his other hand, dabbing at his right eye to clear his vision. Having two eyes to see out of helps, but it’s still not much good. It occurs to Sherlock that he is singularly ill-equipped to deal with the situation. John: he’s got to get to John. He staggers back down the corridor toward his shoes and coat, brushes bits of brick off the bottoms of his feet and steps into his shoes barefoot. His movements are slow and clumsy, his fingers fumbling with the buttons. Concussion: yes, very probable. Important not to vomit. Or sleep? He can’t remember. 

He dozes off in the cab, but he must have given the correct address, because the next thing he knows, the driver is telling him loudly that they’ve arrived. Sherlock hands him a card, some card, waits to have it back, then manages to get himself inside the clinic without falling down. 

“I need to see John Watson,” he tells the receptionist, aware that his _s_ ’s are coming out rather indistinctly. 

Her mouth opens, her eyes going to the bloodied toilet paper that he’s still pressing to the cut. “Er – Dr Watson is with a patient at the moment – are you sure you wouldn’t rather go to an A&E, sir?” 

“No. I want to see John,” Sherlock repeats stubbornly. “I’ll wait.” 

“Just – just give me a moment,” the receptionist says, obviously distressed. She’s a new one and he hasn’t seen her before. She hastens around a corner in the direction of John’s office, then comes back thirty seconds later and beckons to Sherlock. “All right – come with me,” she says. 

Sherlock pushes himself off the counter and lurches after her, his ears ringing. It doesn’t matter: he’s here. John will fix it. 

The receptionist is standing near the door. “He should be right with you,” she says worriedly. “His current patient should be out in just a moment.” 

The door opens and an elderly lady comes out. “If you say so, then,” she says in a heavily Scottish accent that’s underscored by doubt. 

“I do,” a familiar voice says firmly, and Sherlock’s entire frame brightens. The lady clearly wants to linger and debate whatever John has told her, but the receptionist addresses her and somehow makes her go away. “Jesus!” John says to Sherlock in disbelief, finally getting a clear look at him. “What the hell have you done to yourself? Get in here,” he adds, before Sherlock can respond. “Are you all right?” 

“Think I may have concussed myself,” Sherlock confesses, dropping into the patient chair. It crosses his mind that perhaps he should have gone and sat down on the examining table, but this doesn’t matter, either. 

John is bending forward, peering at the cut, so Sherlock removes the wadded toilet paper to let him see it. “And how did you manage that?” 

“Blew up a brick in my face.” 

John nods, as though this is not unexpected, and to be fair, it really shouldn’t be by now. “Naturally,” he says, but Sherlock doesn’t register the response, for the very good reason that something has just caught his attention. 

John is wearing glasses. They’re dark frames, not heavy, but heavy enough to give him an immensely scholarly, doctorly air. Sherlock stares at them, his attention arrested, and forgets to respond to whatever John just said. 

John frowns at him. “Sherlock. The date?” 

“You’re wearing glasses,” Sherlock says, still transfixed by them. 

John looks immediately self-conscious. “Oh.” He clears his throat. “Erm – yes.” He pulls them off and sets them on the desk, a flush creeping up from the collar of his shirt. “Are you listening to me? I need you to tell me the date. Checking your cognition and that, right? Concussion?” 

Sherlock blinks. “You should put them back on,” he says, though he did mean to answer about the date. (And why did he say that out loud?)

John’s lips purse. “You’re slurring,” he points out. “And I’m going to have to stitch this, I think. The date, Sherlock, or I’m sending you to a hospital – ”

“It’s the seventeenth of December,” Sherlock interrupts. “I’m fine. Just need a stitch or two.” 

John nods. “I’d ask you who the current prime minister is, but I’m sure you haven’t got the faintest idea. What’s the eighth element on the periodic table?” 

“Oxygen,” Sherlock says automatically, and John’s face grows noticeably less worried. 

“My middle name?” he asks, his mouth looking like he’s trying not to smile. 

“Hamish,” Sherlock says, allowing the corners of his own mouth to curl upward. “It comes from a great-uncle you’ve never met and a girl called Melissa found out about it when you were seven and drew everyone’s attention to it and you were ridiculed and have hated it ever since. I haven’t been mentally incapacitated, John. Just a little dizzy.” 

“All right, all right,” John says, sounding both mollified and amused. “You want me to do your stitches, I take it?” 

Sherlock raises his palms in surrender. “Why else would I be here? Better you than some fool at an A&E somewhere.” 

“All of whom are entirely competent professionals,” John says patiently, but he’s already moving to the sink to wash his hands again. 

“You have the field experience,” Sherlock says to his back, and catches the smile John tries to hide from him again. The water shuts off and John dries his hands. “Why do you never wear them at home?” he asks, meaning the glasses. 

John shrugs and turns around. “No need, that’s all.” 

“You were squinting at the menu the other day,” Sherlock says, unable to let it go. John opens his mouth to counter this, his brows drawing together, so Sherlock adds, “They suit you. You _should_ wear them more often.” 

This stops whatever John was about to say. He fidgets with the instrument he’s holding, then says, “Well, in that case, we’ll see. They do help me to focus on finer details, so…” He clears his throat again and reaches for the glasses, putting them back on in his best attempt to look nonchalant about it and busying himself with threading the polydioxanone. 

Sherlock watches him, his head feeling full of wet cotton, but it’s fine. The glasses render John immensely more attractive than he already was, somehow. “How long have you had them?” he asks, unable to stop asking about it, too curious to help himself, and too fascinated to drop it. 

“D’you want a local anaesthetic? You’re probably fine,” John says, almost more to himself. “You can have one if you like, though… they’re pretty mild.” 

Sherlock waves this off. “I’m fine.” 

John tips alcohol onto a cotton ball. “You know this will sting.” He sterilises the laceration, which does indeed sting. “Would you mind moving to the table, actually? Less of an awkward angle for me to do the stitches.” 

“All right.” Sherlock lets himself be pulled to his feet and manhandled over to the examining table, where the paper protests loudly as he shifts himself onto it, his limbs feeling slow and heavy. 

“Good. Thanks,” John says. He moves the footstool aside and puts himself between Sherlock’s knees, a determined look on his face. 

The look combined with the glasses themselves is almost unbearably attractive. Sherlock swallows and it sounds very loud in the room. He opens his mouth, wanting to ask again, but he hesitates, not wanting to push it too far. 

“I’ve had them for about a year and a half now,” John says evenly, anticipating it. “Just for here at the office.” 

A year and a half. Sherlock turns this information over in his head. “Did Mary ever see you in them?” he asks. 

John pulls back. “Why?” he asks, a bit stiffly. 

Sherlock knows when to back off and does so rapidly. He shrugs. “Just curious.” 

John relaxes a little and shakes his head. “Just the staff here, and my patients, obviously. And now you.” 

Sherlock wants to ask more, wants to know why John is so self-conscious about his glasses, but decides that perhaps he’s pushed enough. He closes his mouth and endures the sutures stoically. It’s painful, but not the first time he’s had them, even from John. 

When it’s finally finished, John covers the fresh stitches with gauze and medical tape. “Did you take a cab here?” he asks, fishing two tablets of paracetamol out of a bottle and giving them to Sherlock with a plastic glass of water. 

Sherlock nods, taking the pills obediently. “Why?” 

“I’d rather you didn’t go home on your own,” John tells him, sounding concerned. “You’re mentally sound, but you’re not as well as you think you are. It’s half-past two now. I can probably finish up a bit early, but I do have one person I should see today if I can. Tell you what: you keep yourself awake and busy with your phone or something. I’ll ask Lydia to keep an eye on you. I’m going to see if I can get Harry and Gwyneth to get Rosie and keep her for a day or two, then get someone in to clean up the flat. Was anything damaged?”

“Er…” Sherlock has no particular recollection of the kitchen, apart from all of the brick pieces. “I don’t know. There are definitely bits of brick everywhere…” 

“What about toxic fumes?” John asks. “Is this something for the poison control people?” 

Sherlock shakes his head, but the motion hurts and he winces. “No. I don’t think so.” 

“Okay, good,” John says. “In that case, I’ll walk you back to the waiting room, get the one man I need to see in straightaway, then have someone else take the others. I should be done in about twenty minutes. Just keep yourself awake, all right?” 

Sherlock nods and slips off the examining table. His legs prove to be less steady than he was hoping, but John is right there, an arm coming solidly around his back. 

“Whoops,” he says. “Come on. I’ve got you.” 

He half-pulls Sherlock into the waiting room, gets him seated, then goes over to the desk to have a quiet, intense word with the receptionist, then glances back at Sherlock with a worried look on his face on his way back to his office. The receptionist shuffles files around, then calls the name of the old man seated across from Sherlock, who wobbles to his feet and makes his way down the corridor. Sherlock blinks and pulls out his phone, dutifully perusing it to keep himself awake. About ten minutes later, the receptionist comes and offers him a glass of water – a ruse, Sherlock suspects, that John likely put her up to just to check whether or not he’s nodded off. 

He refuses the water politely. “I’m awake,” he tells her, and she retreats. 

John comes back a bit later. “All right, let’s go,” he says, watching warily as Sherlock pushes himself to his feet. “You okay?” 

“Sure,” Sherlock says, his head swimming. 

John doesn’t believe it for a second and stays right beside him, his presence alone a stabilising influence. “I’m taking him home now,” he tells the receptionist. “If you need me urgently, give me a call. Otherwise, I’m sure Doctor Ellis can handle it. She’s very good.” 

The receptionist nods, her eyes travelling over the two of them and seeming to register that Sherlock is perhaps more than just another patient to John. Sherlock has no idea what she’s surmising privately, but he rather likes this, he finds. 

John takes him out onto the pavement and signals for a taxi, helping Sherlock into it and going round to the far side once he’s in. He keeps up a steady stream of conversation on the way home, his eyes flicking repeatedly to Sherlock’s, scrutinising his pupils and double-checking his answers. Inside, he puts an arm around Sherlock’s back to help him up the stairs, which is actually quite welcome at this point; his legs have become somewhat useless. “What were you doing, blowing up a brick, anyway?” John wants to know, but his tone is tolerant. “Did you do that on purpose?” 

Sherlock nods and this hurts, too. “Not the passing out bit, but yes. I was trying to prove a point to my brother about the inadequacy of his security system.” 

John pauses, his arm still around Sherlock. “Wait,” he says, his voice turning even gentler. “You were doing this for Rosie’s sake?” 

(Avoid nodding, definitely.) “Yes,” Sherlock says. They’ve stopped moving, which makes it feel much more as though John is just standing there with his arm around him. It’s dangerously pleasant. Sherlock leans into it very slightly, though this is also becoming a necessity. “I’m doing my utmost to keep her as safe as possible,” he says, aware that his speech is still slurring. 

John frowns at this, but his arm tightens, which was precisely what Sherlock was hoping for. He’s not wearing his glasses anymore, which is a pity, but his proximity is still quite enjoyable. “If _Mycroft_ thinks it’s safe, then it probably is,” he says cautiously. “But I’m touched by your… investment in this, Sherlock. Thank you.” 

Sherlock frowns back at him. “It’s your daughter,” he says. “Why wouldn’t I be invested?” 

For some reason, this makes John clear his throat, his cheeks flushing a little, and he ducks his face. “Let’s get you upstairs,” he says in lieu of responding directly, so they keep going. 

The flat is still a mess, particularly the kitchen. John has a good look at everything, then tells him that he’s already organised for a cleaning service to come in. “Sorry,” Sherlock says meekly. “I’ll pay for it, of course.”

“It’s fine,” John assures him. “They should be here in about half an hour. Meanwhile, you and I are going to play Scrabble.” 

“Scrabble?” Sherlock repeats blankly. 

John nods. “Scrabble,” he repeats back. “Got to keep your brain at least moderately engaged, keep you awake. You with me?” 

Sherlock nods, keeping the motion as small as possible. “Always,” he says. 

John’s lips quirk at this, but he doesn’t say anything, clearing his throat instead and going for the game board. 

*** 

The next few days are quiet. Sherlock sleeps a lot. John stays home and looks after him, which is nice. There are a lot of quiet cups of tea when Sherlock is up and out of the bedroom, the fire burning constantly. At some point Mrs Hudson came up and decorated, though she kept it tasteful this year, just strings of lights around the windows and over the doorframe separating the sitting room from the kitchen. Just this morning, she called John down to carry up a small fir that she had delivered, and Sherlock contentedly watched the two of them decorate it from his chair, wrapped in a blanket and drinking hot, milky, very sweet chai, carols playing gently from John’s laptop. At John’s insistence, he struggled to his feet to place the star on top once they finished the rest of it, making a (mild) joke about both John and Mrs Hudson’s inadequate height for the job, which only made John grin and say something about trying to help Sherlock feel useful and included. Now it’s evening. John’s been cooking for them both ever since the concussion, and he roasted a chicken with garlic and sage and made a big Caesar salad to go with it, and it was very good. Delicious, in fact. John is quite a good cook and it’s been a long time since Sherlock has eaten anything he’s made. He’s missed it. 

Now they’re sitting in their chairs, Sherlock reading a novel for once, as John has limited his screen time, and across from him, John is reading, too. Sherlock glances at him, wanting to initiate conversation. Despite the pain in his head, it’s been very nice, these past two days and a bit, having John’s constant presence and attention. He’s trying actively not to crave more, not to put any pressure on what’s already a very satisfactory situation, but it’s difficult. He studies John surreptitiously for a moment. “What are you reading?” he asks. 

The fire crackles and John turns a page and looks up. “It’s an old novel, called _Lost Horizon_. Was made into a bad film around thirty years ago.”

Sherlock absorbs this. “What’s it about?” 

John sets the book down in his lap. “It’s about a plane that gets hijacked in northern India at the end of World War II, with four very different passengers inside. It was supposed to be an evacuation, but as I said, they get hijacked and flown into the Himalayas in Tibet, and taken to a lamasery in a place that isn’t supposed to exist. The main character, Conway, gets to know the Head Lama, and finds out that they might have figured out how to prolong human life by hundreds of years. It’s all a bit mystical, and it’s a story set inside another story, narrated by one person in the prologue to another. There’s an epilogue, too, but you’re meant to still be wondering if the entire thing even happened by the end.” He nods at Sherlock’s book. “What have you got there?” 

Sherlock looks down at the book’s cover. “It’s called _Watership Down_. Have you never read it?” 

John shakes his head. “No. Sorry. What’s it about?” 

Sherlock thinks for a moment. “It’s essentially a sociological study. About how different societies are formed.”

John looks confused. “What? I thought it was a book about rabbits.” 

“It is,” Sherlock allows. “But it’s also very much about what makes a good society, what good leadership is, and how to not let your society become a militant oligarchy.” 

John looks dubious. “That sounds pretty dull.” 

“It isn’t, though,” Sherlock insists. “The main characters are rather compelling, in fact, and they also have their own mythology. You would like that part. Their ‘god’ character – well, I suppose it’s really a Christological character, is a rabbit named El-ahrairah, and he’s a trickster, but also sacrifices himself for his people. It actually gets quite dark in places.” 

John does look interested now, but he’s also smiling. “I can see why you like it,” he says, and Sherlock has the wit to realise that it’s a dig. 

He changes the subject. “I noticed you were holding your book rather close to your face…” 

John knows exactly where this is going. “Maybe I just need to turn another lamp on,” he says, not taking the bait. 

“Or you could just wear your glasses,” Sherlock suggests, trying very hard to keep his tone light and casual. “No point in straining your eyes.” 

John sighs, then gets to his feet. “Have it your way, then.” He goes over to where he leaves his work bag and fishes out the glasses case, slipping the frames onto his face. “Happy?” he asks, with a somewhat defiant gesture. 

Sherlock smiles placidly, concealing his inner glee. “No point in making it more difficult for yourself,” is all he says, re-opening his book. 

John settles back into his chair and finds the page he was on, and companionable silence takes over again. Sherlock steals several looks at the glasses, and John in them, over the top of his book. John catches him the fifth or maybe sixth time. “What?” he asks, his voice suspicious. 

Sherlock clears his throat hastily. “I was just going to suggest that – that perhaps we should try out our new slow cooker, since we’ve been eating together more since – this,” he says spontaneously, gesturing at his bandaged forehead. He has no idea how that thought came into his head, but it’s a relief that it did. “What do you think?” 

John looks surprised. “Oh,” he says. He takes off his glasses and taps one of the arms against his lips, a gesture that looks well-practised to Sherlock’s eye. It must be something he does when he’s being a doctor, he thinks. “We could do that, I suppose. Do you want to look up a recipe that appeals? Then, if you’re feeling up to going out tomorrow, we could go and get the ingredients in the morning, then put whatever it is together and eat it for supper? We’re getting Rosie back after daycare, Harry’s bringing her, so it would make supper time a bit easier.” 

Sherlock attempts to hide how pleased he feels about this idea. “All right,” he says. “Any particular requests? That chicken you roasted for dinner was superb, by the way.” 

John smiles. “Thanks. Yeah, I thought it turned out well. Mrs Hudson suggested that, that I rub butter into the skin before roasting it. It was a good idea. But no, choose whatever you like, and we’ll get whatever we need to go in it or with it, or whatever else.” 

He goes back to his book, leaving Sherlock with the task of finding a recipe. It feels almost as though they’ve made a date: first the shopping, which they haven’t been doing together – usually it’s Mrs Hudson who goes to the shops and brings back whatever they’ve requested – and then the eating of their creation later on. Sherlock pulls out his phone. He’d better find a very good recipe, in that case. 

*** 

“All right, so where to first?” John asks.

The grocery isn’t too crowded at this time of the day. It’s a Tuesday at ten in the morning, and it was a good time to come. “The butcher,” Sherlock decides. He’s dressed and on his feet and so far feeling all right. His stitches are healing well, John says, though they’re still prudently covered in a smaller square of gauze now, half-hidden by his hair. 

“Okay.” John heads off toward the meat section. “What are we making?” 

“Boeuf bourguignon,” Sherlock says, nodding toward the butcher’s counter. “We need beef stewing cubes.” 

John gives him a dubious look. “Sounds delicious… sure you wouldn’t rather get sirloin or something?” 

“No, this is exactly what we need,” Sherlock insists. “It needs to be a specific cut of meat or else it will just fall apart in the slow cooker.” The butcher arrives, wiping his hands on his apron, so Sherlock tells him what they want. They’re given a package of paper-wrapped beef a few minutes later, along with a tolerant look which Sherlock notices and hopes devoutly that John hasn’t, and they set off toward the produce. They pick out new potatoes, a few carrots, a container of button mushrooms, then packets of fresh thyme and parsley. Then it’s to the packaged food aisles for a container of beef broth and a can of tomato paste. Finally, they pass by the bakery to pick up a crusty baguette, still warm in its long paper bag. “I think that’s it,” Sherlock says, consulting his list. “Now we just need some wine.” 

John nods. “Okay. Red wine?” 

“Yes, but let’s go to a proper wine shop,” Sherlock says, so they pay and head back out into the cool day. It’s snowing lightly and the streets of Westminster are decorated cheerily. It’s rather pleasant, in fact, though Sherlock is very much cognisant of the fact that John’s presence is what’s rendering the normally-irritating holiday festivity so specifically enjoyable at the moment. The lights are genuinely pretty, though, and people seem to be in a good mood, generally. 

They stop off at the wine store and buy two bottles: a cheap cabernet for the boeuf bourguignon and a better-quality bottle of merlot to drink with it. “Can’t we just call it beef stew?” John asks, picking up the paper bag containing the wine and shouldering the door open as they leave and nearly dislodging the wreath of holly hanging there in the process. 

“No! That would be completely bourgeois of us!” Sherlock follows him, carrying the groceries. “Boeuf bourguignon. It’s not that difficult.” 

John snickers. “Fine, but I’ll let you be the one to address it directly.” 

“Possibly wise. Foreign languages have never been your speciality – ouch!” Sherlock ducks as John swats him in the arm with his free hand. “Careful, you could split my stitches open, _doctor_.” 

“Quit that.” John is still amused. “I was nowhere near your head. Besides, I’ll have you know that I can speak about six phrases of perfectly passable Urdu.” 

“Do you remember any of them?” Sherlock asks, curiously. 

John thinks for a moment, then says something definitely foreign-sounding, adding, “I think, at least.” 

“What was that?” 

“If I said it right, that was ‘we’re here to help’,” John says, a bit dryly. “Not sure how effective our help was, but that was the aim, at least.” He stops in front of their door and digs his keys out of his jacket pocket. “We’re starting this right away, then?” 

“Yup.” Sherlock lets his _p_ pop; it nearly always makes John smile, and this time is no exception. “It needs to cook for eight hours or so.” 

John checks the time. “It’s only ten thirty-five. We’ve got lots of time.” 

“We can feed Rosie at the usual time, of course,” Sherlock assures him. “It doesn’t matter how late we eat.” 

“No, of course not.” They make their way upstairs and set down their purchases. “What else do we need?” John asks. 

“Get the bacon, garlic, and an onion,” Sherlock instructs. “We start with the bacon.” 

“Okay.” John goes to the fridge and retrieves the stipulated items, bringing them over to the table. “Now what?” 

Sherlock consults the recipe, then puts his phone down on the table so that John can see it, too. “One of us should cut five strips of that into small pieces and one of us should get out the slow cooker.” 

John shrugs. “I don’t mind. I’ll do the bacon. You get out the thing.” 

Sherlock agrees and goes to the pantry, bending to retrieve the device and its instruction booklet. He brings this back to the table as John bends to get a cutting board, then slits open the packet of bacon. Sherlock skims the instructions. “It says we should test it first, but I think that’s rubbish,” he announces. “I’m sure it will be fine.” 

“Says the man who recently blew up a brick in this very room,” John says dryly, but his mouth is twitching as he slices the bacon. 

“Deliberately,” Sherlock reminds him airily. “I’m sure it’s just a precaution.” He looks around for an available plug and sees one at the counter. “I’m going to set it up over here, unless you have any objections.” 

John glances at it. “Seems fine to me. By ‘set up’, I gather you mean that you’re just sticking it there and plugging it in.” 

“That counts,” Sherlock says. He looks at the phone again. “Hmm, all right. We have to wait for the bacon to cook before we can do the next step. Perhaps I’ll skip ahead and slice some of the other stuff.” 

John gets out a big frying pan and scrapes his bacon into it, turning on the element. “I can do some of that,” he volunteers. “If you’re doing the potatoes, I’ll do the mushrooms, maybe.” 

“Okay,” Sherlock says affably. They’re standing kitty-corner to one another and a comfortable silence falls as Sherlock slices the tiny potatoes in half and John rubs the mushrooms clean with a damp cloth before cutting off the stems. 

“Should I slice these, or just quarter them, do you think?” he asks. 

“Maybe quarter them,” Sherlock suggests. “I feel that a st – that it should be rustic and chunky.” 

John grins at him. “You almost called it a stew!” 

“I did,” Sherlock admits. “I slipped. I blame your pedestrian influence.” 

John laughs. “You could do with a little pedestrian influence,” he says, refusing to be insulted and dextrously slicing the mushrooms. Sherlock watches his small, sturdy, delicate hands and thinks of them performing surgery. John puts down his knife and goes to stir the bacon, which has begun to sizzle. “What’s the next step, once the bacon is done?” 

“I don’t know, read it,” Sherlock says, pointing at his phone with his knife. 

John gives him a suspicious look and picks up the phone. He squints and enlarges the text with his fingers. “God, this is still tiny,” he mutters. Sherlock smirks and isn’t quick enough to hide it. “What?” John demands. 

“Nothing.” Sherlock keeps his eyes on his potatoes, suppressing his expression. 

John is silent for a moment. “Oh, _fine_ , then,” he mutters, putting down the phone and going into the sitting room. He comes back wearing his glasses. “Don’t even say anything,” he warns, consulting the recipe again. 

“Wasn’t going to,” Sherlock says, and that’s good: his voice comes out perfectly naturally. He does steal a look at John in them again, though. He can’t help it. The glasses just render John ten times more appealing than he was before, particularly when he’s reading something and concentrating intelligently. He clears his throat. “So, what’s next, doctor?” 

John gives him a dark look, but all he says is, “Next we’ve got to brown the beef. It says we’ve got to pat it dry first, though. Why on earth would we need to do that?” 

“Ah.” Sherlock finishes with his potatoes and pushes them to the side of his cutting board. “I would assume that it won’t brown properly if it’s too wet. What do we do with the bacon? Leave it in there?” 

“No, we’ve got to put it in the slow cooker,” John tells him. He goes back to the pan and prods the bacon again. 

“With the grease, or do we leave that in the pan?” Sherlock wonders aloud. 

John shrugs. “I don’t know. It didn’t say.” 

Sherlock ponders. “Let’s put it in the cooker right away. If it’s too greasy, I don’t think the beef will brown, either.” He reaches for the package of meat and unwraps it, then considers what to pat the cubes with. Will paper towel do? He doesn’t particularly think that Mrs Hudson would appreciate him contaminating one of her tea towels with raw beef juice. He decides on the paper towel and begins to pat the cubes dry, one at a time. 

John deposits the bacon in the slow cooker, then comes back to the table, watches him for a moment, snickering, then takes a few sheets of paper towel and joins him. “This is weird,” he says conversationally. 

“A bit,” Sherlock admits. “But hopefully the end result will be worth our trouble.” 

John makes a sound of agreement. “How’s your head today?” 

“Better,” Sherlock tells him. “Less dizziness, too.” 

“Good.” 

They transfer the beef to the pan and John supervises as Sherlock turns each piece, letting it brown on each side. Sherlock glances at John again and sees that the steam from the pan is beginning to fog up his glasses. Almost unthinkingly, John pulls them off and cleans them on his shirt. He does wear them often, then, Sherlock muses. The gesture is so well-practised and natural. Without thinking, John puts the glasses back on and consults the recipe on Sherlock’s phone. 

They make a sauce, scraping the bits of browning from the bottom of the pan and pouring in the cabernet they bought, then mixing in the beef stock and tomato paste and a splash of soy sauce that Sherlock nearly overlooked. It’s beginning to smell very good. “Now the flour?” John asks. 

Sherlock thinks. “It says it’s optional. Let’s add it, though. I’d prefer a thicker sauce.” 

“All right,” John agrees, and the flour is duly added. John tips the sauce into the slow cooker over the beef and bacon. “Now I think all we’ve got to do is add the vegetables.” 

“And the thyme,” Sherlock says. 

John looks at him and smiles. “Thyme always helps,” he says, his tone a bit odd, and Sherlock wonders if he was thinking of _thyme_ or _time_. Time has helped already, at least when it comes to the two of them. They’re light years from where they were a year ago: John miserable and drinking heavily, avoiding everyone including his daughter, singling Sherlock out for his blame. Sherlock high and obsessed with Culverton Smith, with provoking a serial killer into adding him to his list by way of finding some way to save John from the hell he’d seemingly helped create for him, or at least he’d believed that then. Now John’s hand is gentle on his arm, saying something about the carrots that they’ve forgotten to chop, and Sherlock looks at him and thinks again that it’s a bit of a miracle that they’ve got to this place from that other one. It’s been slow. It’s taken time. But they’re getting there. Somewhere. 

“I’ll do it,” he says automatically, meaning the carrots. “You can put everything else in. It’ll only take me a moment.” John agrees and carries off the rest of it – the mushrooms, potatoes, garlic, and onions – and tips them into the cooker. Sherlock chops the three carrots into large chunks and takes them over, then reaches for a large spoon to give everything a solid mix. 

John goes to the table and comes back with the packet of thyme. “How much of this?” he wonders. 

Sherlock shrugs. “I don’t know. A bunch?” 

“Okay.” John takes out four or five strands of thyme and tucks them into the bourguignon. “Like so?” 

“Looks good,” Sherlock confirms. He looks at the controls, then selects ‘low’ and puts the lid on, checking the time. “It’s half-past eleven. It should be ready to eat after seven or eight hours.” 

“Perfect,” John says. “In that case, I’m going to put on the kettle and you’re going to get off your feet. That’s enough activity for you for now.” 

His doctorly authority has returned to his voice and Sherlock submits to it readily. “All right,” he says mildly. “If you want to make us tea, far be it for me to object.” 

John looks over at him from where he’s filling the kettle at the sink and smiles. “Unlike you to be so cooperative,” he remarks. “I like it. Meanwhile, what do you say we watch a movie or something? Seems like we’ve got at least an hour before it’s lunch time. We could order in, since we’ve just spent a heap of time cooking your bourguignon.” 

His pronunciation is slightly mangled, but Sherlock doesn’t comment on it. It shouldn’t be making him feel this fond, but it can’t be helped. “Sure,” he says easily. “You can choose. Far be it for me to argue with my doctor’s advice.” 

John gives a sound that sounds suspiciously like a snort, but when Sherlock sneaks a look at him, he’s definitely smiling. 

*** 

The rest of the day carries on under the same spell of everything somehow going well. The movie John chooses is good, intelligent enough to hold Sherlock’s attention and with enough action to hold John’s. They watch it on the sofa, as they always used to, John moving the television to the coffee table. They order in Chinese halfway through, sesame chicken, chow mein, and garlic broccoli, and eat as they’re watching. 

Later, John checks on Sherlock’s stitches and changing the bandaging, pronounces himself pleased that the stitches have begun to dissolve. “Stay here for a second,” he says, getting up from the kitchen table when he was sitting, leaning forward to check the cut. 

“Where are you going?” Sherlock asks. 

“Just upstairs. Be right back.” John leaves, jogging up the stairs to his bedroom, but is back in a few moments as promised, carrying a small tub of something. 

Sherlock eyes it curiously. “What’s that?” 

“Cocoa butter,” John says, sounding very slightly self-conscious. “It’s – I bought it the other day. It’s meant to help keep the scarring minimal.”

Sherlock is astonished. “You bought that – for me?” he asks, uncertain of his footing, but nonetheless wanting to know. 

John shrugs, the gesture betraying still more self-consciousness. “Well, I mean, it’s right on your face, and… you did it out of concern for Rosie, so I just thought…” He clears his throat. “Anyway, the thing I read said to wait until the laceration is healed, and it’s just about there, so. I mean, it’s your face and all.” 

Sherlock smiles a little. “Scars are supposed to give one character,” he says cautiously. 

John definitely snorts and it breaks the slight awkwardness between them. “I think you’ve got plenty of that already,” he says dryly. “C’mere. Lean forward.” 

Sherlock leans forward obediently, and John deftly dabs some cream onto the cut. It’s heavy and thick and feels luxuriously smooth. 

“Does that hurt?” John asks. 

Sherlock shakes his head. “No.” 

John nods, then massages the cocoa butter into his skin a little more firmly. “There,” he says after. “We’ll just let that absorb a little, and then I think we’ll cover it again. One more day. Tomorrow you can lose the gauze. It’s mostly meant to both hide and protect the stitches.” 

Sherlock blinks at him. “Thank you,” he says, and John seems to realise then that he’s still leaning forward, and abruptly moves away, clearing his throat subtly. 

“Of course,” he says. He checks the time, his small, skilled hands screwing the lid of the tub back on. “It’s half-past four. Harry should be getting here soon…” 

As though on cue, the downstairs door opens, and Sherlock immediately hears the voices of both John’s sister and daughter. “There they are,” he says. 

John smiles. “Come on up!” he calls through the open flat door, then goes to stand at the top of the stairs. 

Sherlock hesitates for a moment, then follows him. He’s never certain how he’s expected to behave around Rosie, how much he’s expected to help or tend or any of that. He wants to support John, yet also doesn’t want to presume. Nor, as Mrs Hudson would definitely remind him, are children precisely his area of expertise. He hangs back, hovering in the shadows behind John, and watches as Harry patiently lets Rosie do the stairs herself, taking them one at a time, holding her hand. 

When they reach the top, John scoops Rosie into his arms, greeting her, then leans forward to kiss his sister on the cheek. “Thank you so much,” he says gratefully, and Harry smiles. 

“No problem. You know we’re always happy to have her.” Her eyes go to Sherlock, but they’re less sharp than they sometimes are. “I hear you tried to blow yourself up,” she says conversationally. 

Sherlock doesn’t rise to the bait. “As sometimes happens in my line of work,” he says blandly, and John gives Harry a look that he fails to comprehend. 

Whatever it meant, Harry drops the subject. “It smells divine up here,” she comments instead. “Are you two actually cooking?” 

“We do cook,” John says, only slightly defensive. He’s getting better, Sherlock thinks with pride. “But yes, I’ll have you know that we’re making a boeuf bourguignon. In our new slow cooker.” 

Harry looks astonished. “You own a slow cooker?” 

“It was a housewarming gift, from Mrs Hudson. Our landlady,” John tells her. “To welcome Rosie and me back.” 

Harry clearly has thoughts about this, but glances at Sherlock and evidently decides not to express them. “Huh,” she says instead. “Look at that. Well, it smells great.” She turns to John and fills him in on what she and Gwyneth did with Rosie and Sherlock tunes it out. 

When a break in the exchange comes, he offers a cup of tea, which Harry mercifully refuses. “I should get home. Gwyn and I are meeting some people for dinner, since we’re _sans enfant_ again. Thanks, though.” 

“Thanks again,” John says, sounding like he means it, and Harry smiles. 

“Anytime,” she says. “Really. Enjoy the boeuf – whatever.” 

“Bourguignon,” John supplies correctly, as though he hasn’t been making fun of the name all along. 

“Right. That.” Harry eyes Sherlock as though he’s to blame for this sudden plunge into gourmet cooking, but doesn’t say anything. “See you two.” 

She goes. John is still holding Rosie, pressing a kiss to her cheek, and for a moment – as he always does – Sherlock feels irrationally jealous. “Hello, Watson,” he says, reaching out and touching the back of her hand with a finger. “Welcome home.” 

Rosie more or less ignores this, but John smiles at him. “Let’s get you fed,” he says to his daughter, so Sherlock goes to find his laptop and busies himself. 

“Let me know if you want any help,” he says politely, as he routinely does. 

John waves this off, as he always does, too. “It’ll be fine. It’s hardly rocket science.” 

“True,” Sherlock agrees, yet he watches them and wishes he didn’t feel so awkward about this part of their current domestic arrangement. Wishes he knew what John really wanted of him, regarding Rosie. Would he like more help, but doesn’t want to ask? Sherlock inevitably ends up doing some of it, even if it’s only clean-up. Would he like Sherlock to take more of an active interest? Be more affectionate? Just more useful? Or would that be intrusive? He knows at least that John doesn’t harbour any longings for Mary, that their marriage was well over before Mary’s death. They’ve talked about all of that. Nevertheless, Rosie is the product of that marriage and Sherlock never stops feeling conscious of the fact. He distracts himself by making a simple salad to go with their meal, a mix of spinach and arugula with tiny grape tomatoes sliced in half, miniature mozzarella balls, cucumber, and spring onions, tossed in a light olive oil and balsamic vinaigrette. 

By the time another two hours have gone by, Rosie has been bathed, changed, and put to bed, and John comes back downstairs with satisfaction. “Is it just about time to eat?” he asks hopefully. “It’s smelling better all the time!” 

It’s true: the rich scents of the wine, beef, and thyme have combined into an increasingly heady, powerfully appetising aroma that’s had Sherlock’s stomach rumbling since late afternoon. He checks the time. “Just about, I should think. Let me put the baguette in to warm.” He shuts his laptop and gets up, crossing into the kitchen. 

“Do we need anything else?” John asks, following him. 

Sherlock shakes his head. “I don’t think so. You could open the wine to let it breathe, if you like. I’ll just give the parsley a quick chop.” 

“I’ll set the table, too,” John decides. 

Sherlock turns on the oven and stows the baguette inside, then fetches the salad out of the fridge, quickly chops some parsley, puts it into a small dish as a garnish, and joins John in laying the table for their meal. “Should we have some music?” he asks suddenly, setting out silverware on either side of the wide, shallow bowls John’s chosen for the bourguignon. “Perhaps something seasonal?” 

John looks amused, but says, “Yeah, all right. Could be nice.” 

Sherlock folds two serviettes into fan-shapes (a remnant of his online studies, which should amuse John) and goes back to the laptop, selecting an album of jazzy Christmas standards, adjusting the volume. _White Christmas_ begins to play as John uncorks the merlot. Sherlock watches him for a moment. He’s not wearing his glasses anymore, but standing there in the light of the green-shaded lamp, he nonetheless looks almost unbearably handsome and something in Sherlock’s chest gives a pang. Is this ridiculous, what he’s trying for? Well – not so much actively trying for as hoping? Is there any point at all in hoping that he could ever make himself worthy of this man? Is it not enough that he’s come home at last? It should be. Sherlock feels drawn to him like a magnet and finds himself drifting back into the kitchen almost without thinking about it, craving to be where John is in any way he can possibly find to be there. “How does it smell?” he asks. 

John gives a lopsided smell. “Like red wine?” he says. “But a good one.” 

“No ‘lush plum finish’ or ‘cherry nose’?” Sherlock quips. 

“Not that I can detect,” John says wryly. “You’re the perfume expert. This is your field of expertise.” 

Sherlock smiles and goes to inspect the contents of the slow cooker. “Possibly.” He takes off the lid and gives the bourguignon a stir. “This _does_ smell good. Don’t tell Mrs Hudson, but she may actually be a genius.” 

“Who knew.” John goes to the sink and washes his hands. “This music is nice. Good choice.” 

Sherlock ducks the compliment, though it brings a touch of heat to his cheeks. “Perhaps we should bring our bowls here,” he says. “Don’t need either of us getting burnt with it on the table.” 

“Good idea.” John brings both bowls over and Sherlock ladles a generous helping of bourguignon into them. John puts his face close to his and inhales appreciatively. “God, this smells good. I can’t wait to try it.” 

“It does,” Sherlock agrees. “I’ll just get the baguette.” 

“I’ll get the butter,” John decides, collecting the small dish from the counter. 

Sherlock retrieves the baguette and brings it to the table on a wooden bread board and a long, serrated knife so that they can just cut off pieces in whatever size they each like. John is waiting politely by his chair, so Sherlock pulls his own out and they sit down. Sherlock lifts his glass of wine. “Bon appétit,” he says. 

John smiles and clinks his glass to Sherlock’s. “To the chefs,” he says. 

Sherlock smiles, more to himself than to John, and sips his merlot. It’s delicious, rich and velvety on the tongue, multiple layers of flavour distinguishing themselves on his tongue. “This was a good choice,” he comments, and John makes a sound of agreement, sipping again. 

He sets his glass down and spears a piece of beef with his fork. “Oh, it did get tender,” he comments, then blows on it and puts it in his mouth. He chews for a moment, his eyes closed, then swallows and says, “Okay, _wow_. That is _delicious_.” 

Sherlock is watching him. “Is it?” He selects a modestly-sized piece of beef from his own bowl and samples it. John is correct: it’s extremely good. The flavours of the wine, garlic, onion, and the rest of the sauce have permeated the meat, and the acidity and time have rendered it so tender as to practically melt in his mouth. “Mmm. That _is_ good.” He finds a baby potato and tries that next. “Don’t tell Mrs Hudson. She’ll only rub it in our faces.” 

John laughs, his entire face crinkling with it. “You’re right, of course.” He pushes the bread board closer to Sherlock. “Here, get yourself some of that.” 

“All right.” Sherlock picks up the knife. “How much?” he asks, meaning for John. 

“Oh, just give me a chunk,” John says good-naturedly, not refusing it. “Whatever, really.” 

“Okay.” Sherlock carves off a large piece and hands it to John. Their fingers touch for a moment, but neither of them remarks upon the fact, though Sherlock is far too aware of it. 

“Ta,” John says lightly, and butters the bread lavishly. He scoops some salad onto his side plate and passes it to Sherlock. “This is fantastic,” he says, examining a spoonful of bourguignon that contains a piece of carrot and another chunk of beef. “Who knew what good cooks we were?” 

“I suspect that some of our genius _may_ be due to the slow cooker,” Sherlock points out. 

John scoffs at this. “Rubbish. This salad is great, too. Just the right touch.” 

Sherlock smiles and accepts the compliment. “Thank you.”

The music changes, and the song _I’ll be Home for Christmas_ comes on. Sherlock attempts to ignore the sentimental lyrics, but a curious silence falls as they eat and he can’t help but listen. _I’ll be home for Christmas, you can count on me. Please have snow and mistletoe and presents on the tree._ Sherlock chances a look at John and sees that his brow is slightly furrowed. What is he thinking about? It occurs to Sherlock that Christmas is right around the corner, and this year they’ll be here together for it. Here, at home, because John is home at last. 

As though hearing his thoughts, John glances up at him and clears his throat. “I’m, er, really glad to be back, you know,” he says, his voice breaking into the song and the silence. “I just – yeah. Being here again… it’s good. And with – yeah.” He clears his throat again. “Just being able to… I don’t know. Not just eat together, because we’ve always done that, but making dinner together, and being around for when you’ve gone and blown yourself up and that, being able to keep an eye on you after… yeah. Just all of that. I’m glad to be – back.” 

He dodges the word _home_ , but Sherlock hears it anyway, listening keenly for it between the lines. He isn’t certain what he can safely say to this. “I’m very glad you’re back, too,” he says, his mouth suddenly dry, pulse accelerating noticeably. 

For an intense moment, their eyes meet. Then John ducks his face and collects another spoonful of his bourguignon. “So – Christmas,” he says, speaking to the piece of beef on his spoon. “Any plans for that?” 

Sherlock shakes his head. “I imagine my parents will invite us, but we don’t have to go. Or you certainly don’t have to, at any rate.” 

John’s eyes flick up to his at this, a shadow flickering over his forehead. “If they invite us, we can go,” he says, and if he is deliberately emphasising the language of _us_ versus what they might individually choose to do, then Sherlock hears that, too. “I don’t mind,” he adds. “But otherwise – just sticking around here, then?” 

“Yes,” Sherlock says. _Christmas Eve will find me where the love-light gleams. I’ll be home for Christmas, if only in my dreams._ But it won’t be a dream: John is home again. “Just you and I, here at home,” he says, using the word deliberately. “And Rosie, of course.”

John smiles, blinking at him, his golden lashes glinting in the lamplight. “Deal,” he says lightly. “That’s all I want. Nothing fancy. Just – us. Here at Baker Street.” 

They eat the rest of their delicious meal and when it’s over, John gets up to put on the kettle. They perform a cursory clean-up, then drink their tea with the news on, both of them sitting on the sofa, since the television is still on the coffee table from earlier. Throughout it all, Sherlock thinks that he can’t be imagining that he feels undeniably closer to John, that somehow this day has been drawing them inevitably nearer to one another. He couldn’t possibly say it, or the indefinable magic of it would evaporate, but it’s nonetheless there in the way John stands closer to him as they rinse off their plates and put the leftover food away, as he passes him a cup of tea, their fingers touching again, eyes meeting. He sits down first on the sofa and when Sherlock sits next to him, only a few inches away, John doesn’t shift over. Sherlock is heart-thuddingly aware of every single particle of it, of whatever it is that seems to be building between them. 

When it’s time to go to bed, John brushes his teeth in the bathroom as Sherlock changes into his pyjamas, listening to him through the door. Then, just for the thin excuse to see John again before he disappears up to the bedroom he shares with his daughter, Sherlock slips into the sitting room under the pretext of collecting his novel. 

John comes out of the bathroom a moment later, but pauses before going out to the stairwell. “That slow cooker was a good idea,” he says, lingering. “We’ll have to use it again.” 

Sherlock straightens up, the book in his hand, and goes over to him. “Agreed,” he says. “It was a good meal. One can see it proving useful in the future, as well.” 

“Definitely.” John hesitates. “What I said before – yeah. I’m – I’m really glad to be back, you know. I missed it before. Missed – you. This. Living with you.” 

Sherlock’s heartbeat trebles and suddenly he finds himself unable to breathe. “I missed you, too,” he says, the words somehow coming out in the right order. 

John pauses. They’re standing too close together, Sherlock thinks. There’s suddenly an enormous amount of charge in the air between them and John’s shoulders seem to be rather tight. “Well – good night,” he says, his eyes going quickly to Sherlock’s. “Sleep well.” He turns away, and the tension breaks. 

Sherlock feels somehow disappointed by this. (Was he wrong in thinking that something very nearly happened there? How is he to even know?) “You too,” he says automatically, the words dry on his tongue. 

But then John turns back over his shoulder and smiles from the third stair. He touches his forehead. “Don’t forget your cocoa butter,” he says. 

Sherlock fights down the urge to let a foolish, loopy smile take over his face, feeling strangely relieved by this. “I won’t,” he promises, and John smiles again and goes up. 

Sherlock takes himself to his bedroom and lies awake for two hours, gazing upward at the ceiling dividing him from John, and commits every detail of the day to his memory in obsessive detail. 

*** 

He’s sitting at the kitchen table with his book and a cup of tea when he hears the downstairs door open and John’s step beginning to ascend. He timed this deliberately: today is Thursday, the day when Harry and Gwyneth always pick Rosie up from daycare, so John is currently alone and unencumbered. Of course, he has no idea whether John will react the way he’s hoping, but it was worth a shot, at any rate. 

“Hello,” John says, before he’s even through the door. “Sherlock? You home? There was a sale on at the bakery down the street, so I – ” 

He breezes into the kitchen, bringing in a swirl of cold air and a scent of frost, and stops short. He’s holding a small cake box, Sherlock notices, but he sits perfectly still, waiting for John’s reaction. “So you what?” he asks evenly, putting a finger in his book to mark the page and looking up at John. 

John’s mouth is still open, stuck mid-sentence. He blinks several times, then must realise, because he closes it abruptly. “You – ” He stops, still holding the box. “You’re wearing glasses,” he says, sounding stunned. 

“Excellent observation,” Sherlock says, lightly enough, but working hard to conceal his impatience to get John’s evaluation of them. 

John blinks some more and sets the box down on the table. “When did you get them?” he asks, nearly accusatory but not quite. 

“Today,” Sherlock tells him. “You just reminded me yesterday afternoon that I should get my vision checked, given the concussion, so I did. You went back to the clinic today, so I called an optician’s this morning and they had an appointment right away. Turns out I’ve become very slightly myopic. They’re mostly for reading.” 

He delivers all of this, then waits, outwardly calm, but his heart is thudding. John comes closer. “They’re, er, good,” he says. “Really good. They suit you. A lot.” 

Relief. Sherlock smiles at him. “Thank you,” he says modestly. “I rather like them, I think. It occurred to me that perhaps I should have brought you along to tell me which frames to get, but since I was already there, I just chose a pair. I’m glad you think they’re all right.”

John comes closer still, seeming fascinated. “I never even imagined you in glasses.” 

Sherlock smirks, just a little. “But you have imagined me? Interesting.” 

John’s face reddens a little. “Still reading your rabbit society book?” he asks, changing the subject. 

Sherlock holds it up to let him see the cover. “Yes.” He waits, rotating himself deliberately away from the table to face John. 

John is right in front of him now. He bends forward and pushes the curls partially covering Sherlock’s healing laceration and rubs his thumb over it. “The stitches have fully dissolved,” he observes. “That’s good. This is healing well.” 

Sherlock smiles, just a little. “So you said yesterday…” Time to just say something out loud? Perhaps. He takes the plunge. “But you’re not really checking my stitches, are you?” 

John bites his lower lip. For a moment he deliberates, but then mercifully doesn’t deny it. “I guess not…” He trails off, still bent over Sherlock, still touching his forehead, awkwardly close, unless he’s going to permit himself to get closer still. 

Sherlock can feel the charge between them, filling the air as though with electricity. He meets John’s gaze squarely. “So, are you going to, then?” he asks, levelly and very directly, his words underscored with meaning that John can’t possibly mistake. 

John swallows visibly, then nods. “Yeah,” he says, and Sherlock is relieved to hear how firm his voice is. There’s no doubt there. John moves his hand to the side of Sherlock’s face, then bends still further and kisses him. 

The sensation is unlike anything Sherlock has ever experienced before. A bolt of electricity surges through him and he finds himself unable to breathe for a moment, his hand reaching without his conscious volition for John’s face, his mouth kissing back automatically. He hears himself make some sort of unintelligible sound into the kiss, and then he’s on his feet, crowding himself into John’s space, hands grasping at his jaw and back respectively. John makes a sound that might be surprise at first, followed almost immediately by one of breathless agreement. Their mouths are pressed together, Sherlock’s eyes closed. The shock of intimacy is heady, and Sherlock relishes it to a shameless degree, his grip on John tightening, shiveringly aware of John’s arms around him. 

After a moment or two, John pulls away, breathing hard, staring at him, his arms still around Sherlock. He blinks and licks his lips, and finally the barriers that have always been there between them are gone. “Wow,” John says, his voice only just above a whisper. “I don’t even know how long I’ve been waiting to do that. 

“Far too long,” Sherlock says, hardly able to speak above the pounding of his heart. “John – ” He bends forward, wanting it to happen again, and John doesn’t deny him, closing the space between their faces and kissing him for another long, rather wonderful moment. It feels better than anything he’s felt before, better than any drug, better than solving an impossible case. His entire frame is trembling with it, with the magnetic warmth of John’s proximity, craving the gentle suction of his mouth more than anything. 

The next time John releases him, he doesn’t move away at all, breathing with seeming difficulty, his eyes on Sherlock’s lips, then blinking up into his eyes. “Was it always this?” he asks, and Sherlock can feel his heart beating through both their shirts. “All this time, I mean – did you always want it to be – like this?” 

Sherlock swallows and nods, touching his tongue to his lower lip. “For longer than I like to admit,” he says, the confession made safe by the very fact of being in John’s arms. 

“Since – before Mary?” John asks, almost wincing. 

“Since before I went away,” Sherlock tells him, his voice low. “Always, John. It’s always been you.” 

John blinks hard, three or four times. “Fuck,” he says, with heartfelt sincerity. “God, I just – I got it so wrong. Me too, Sherlock – always. _Always_. I just never thought – ”

“That’s because you’re an idiot,” Sherlock says, and John bursts into startled laughter. Sherlock gives a lopsided smile. “Of course, I am, too. That goes without saying. There’s so much I should have done differently. Said earlier.” 

“You haven’t said that much of it yet,” John says, clearly angling for more. 

Sherlock smiles at him. “What do you want me to say?” His voice comes out in a tone he’s never heard it take on before, somehow small and bared and defenseless. He feels as though all of his normal filters have been stripped away, that he can’t possibly filter himself with John’s arms around him this way. 

“Anything,” John breathes, touching his lips to Sherlock’s again, just briefly. “Tell me more. What you feel. What you’ve wanted.” 

Sherlock hesitates. “The day you came back was one of the best days of my life. That’s all I wanted: for you to come home.” 

“I’m home now,” John reassures him, his eyes on Sherlock’s, then dropping to his lips. “But that wasn’t _all_ you wanted…” 

Sherlock shakes his head minutely, and silently lets himself stop holding it in. “I wanted this. Wanted you,” he says, the words coming out in a low confession. 

John says his name, and then their mouths crash together, John’s opening under his. His breath is in Sherlock’s mouth, followed by his tongue, and this sends a streak of white-hot desire searing through Sherlock’s body, producing a sound he cannot prevent. He puts both arms around John now, needing to be as close as he can possibly get. They’re standing in the middle of the kitchen, arms tightly around each other, bodies pressed together, and Sherlock knows that his is responding with alarming speed. He responds to John’s plunder of his mouth to the very best of his inexperienced ability, rubbing his tongue against John’s and his palms into John’s back. After a bit, John breaks away. “I love these glasses, but they can go now,” he says breathlessly, so Sherlock yanks them off and drops them onto the kitchen table behind him. 

“Done,” he says. “Now kiss me again!” 

John doesn’t bother responding; instead he does precisely that, and they sway together, hands rubbing over each other’s backs as they kiss and kiss and kiss.

It’s exquisite, it’s utter paradise and Sherlock throws himself headlong into it, unable to do anything other than that, anyway. Time stops existing: there is only this moment, prolonged into suspended infinity, spinning out and growing and doubling over on itself and he never wants it to end. He craves endlessly more of it, and recklessly allows his left hand to slide down over the firm curve of John’s arse. John inhales sharply through his nose. Alarmed, Sherlock removes his hand immediately, abashed, and breaks away from the kiss. “I’m sorry!”

John’s eyes fly open. “No – don’t be!” he says loudly, anxious to reassure. “I just – wow. I wasn’t expecting that from you, so soon!” 

Sherlock hesitates, his heart still thudding in his veins, arousal flaring throughout his being. “I – sorry, I should have asked first,” he says, still cringing internally. 

John smiles at him, an interesting light in his eyes that Sherlock has only seen in glimpses over the years. “Don’t be,” he says again, firmly. “If you want that – God, Sherlock, if you even knew how much I’ve been shoving back and trying to ignore all this time. I want you. I want you so badly I can taste it. If you want – anything along those lines, it’s yours to have, starting here and now, if you want that!” 

The words render Sherlock momentarily so overcome that he can’t speak. Then his tongue unlocks and he’s nodding, probably far too much. “I want it,” he says, his voice low and intense, searching John’s eyes. “I want you.” 

“I’m yours,” John swears, and takes his face with both hands to kiss him again, hard. Sherlock sinks into it with gratitude. After a moment, John releases his face and takes both of Sherlock’s hands and places them on his arse, then puts his own on Sherlock’s. 

Sherlock hears himself make another sound that he can’t help, and John echoes it back, his strong fingers gripping him. Their bodies are pressing together even harder, John’s hands aligning them so that the rise of his erection finds Sherlock’s, his hips canting into it. Sherlock’s breath stutters. He’s never been touched here, not by anyone other than himself and it’s shocking how much more pleasurable it is this way. He pulls John into himself and presses shamelessly into him, needing more contact, more of that golden sensation collecting between them and spiralling up through his body. John is gasping into his mouth, his hips moving rhythmically against him, but then he pulls away, first with his mouth, then lower. 

“I need to touch you,” he says breathily, inserting his hand between them to rub at the hardness in Sherlock’s trousers. “Can I? Is this – ?”

Sherlock nods frantically. “Yes – if you want to, then please – ” He lurches forward, hungering for John’s mouth again, and John lets him have it without question. 

His palm is pressing into Sherlock’s erection, fingers skating tantalisingly over the straining tightness of his testicles while his left hand fumbles at the button of Sherlock’s trousers. Sherlock’s heart is thundering now, and when John slips his hand down the front of his underwear to touch him, he nearly passes out, breaking away from the kiss with a shuddering inhalation, his mouth staying open after. Undeterred, John attacks his neck and throat with his mouth as Sherlock stands there, gasping and moaning helplessly as John’s fingers curl around him and stroke over and over again. 

His own hands are gripping John’s shoulders for lack of knowing what they should be doing, but suddenly it strikes him that he could be reciprocating, that he wants very much to do so, to touch John in return, lack of technique notwithstanding, so he scrambles to get John’s jeans unzipped, hampered by the pressure currently being put on said zip. He makes a questioning sound, just to confirm, and John nods hard. 

“God, yes!” he says into Sherlock’s jaw, his breath hot against his skin, so Sherlock mimics him, touching him first through his underwear, then growing bolder and reaching past the waistband to grasp at John’s erection at last. John responds by groaning into his cheek, his mouth open. The tempo increases significantly as they stand there, leaning together as their fists stroke roughly over one another, Sherlock’s fumbling inexperience falling back on instinct alone. The pleasure accelerates rapidly, building and growing more and more intense until it comes to a sudden spike, spurting out of him in bursts of white-hot euphoria, John’s fingers squeezing more and more of it out of him as Sherlock pants and pants and grips at John all the while as the pleasure turns him inside out and leaves him sagging against John when it’s finally spent. 

He lets himself breathe hard for a moment or two, stars glittering behind his retinas, then remembers himself and resumes stroking John, whose erection moves within his fist the instant he begins to move it again. “Like – this?” he asks, still breathless, and John nods vigorously. 

“Yeah – exactly like that, it’s perfect, you’re – God, _fuck_ , yes!” John’s voice rises and then his arms are around Sherlock’s shoulders again, thrusting into Sherlock’s fist into counter-rhythm to his strokes. Sherlock feels the shudder that runs through John’s body a moment before he gasps out, “I’m coming – Sherlock – ” The warm flood fills Sherlock’s hand and spatters onto his shirt sleeve, John’s erection twitching in his fingers and erupting again again. 

Sherlock goes on, touching him until it’s over, John’s entire body heaving in the arc of Sherlock’s other arm, and then he goes limp, slumping against him, arms still wound around Sherlock’s neck. He’s panting, his breath hot and damp, face buried in Sherlock’s neck. “Are – are you all right?” Sherlock asks, realising that it’s a stupid thing to ask but not sure what else to say about now. 

John moans in answer, but it sounds very much affirmative. “Fuck yes,” he says a moment later, his words muffled. He pulls back a moment later to look Sherlock in the eyes. “You?” 

Sherlock nods. “Very all right,” he confirms, then smiles, feeling strangely shy. “That was – good. Very good,” he amends. It doesn’t say nearly enough, so he tries again. “That is to say… incredible.” 

John smiles back, his eyes turning gentle. “New for you?” he asks softly. 

Sherlock bites his lip and nods. “Very much so,” he admits. 

“Not too much, then? Especially – so soon?” John asks, sounding worried. 

“Not too much at all. I want there to be much more of that, in the very near future,” Sherlock says honestly, and John laughs. He’s so beautiful when he laughs that Sherlock wants to kiss him again, so he does, and John gives him this, too. 

“Sofa?” he asks, awhile later, so Sherlock agrees. “Let’s just – clean ourselves up a bit, and then go and sit down. Seems we’ve still got a lot to talk about.” 

*** 

By the time they’ve finally said everything that needed saying, it feels like an age later – like all of the time before the moment when John kissed him was another lifetime entirely. They’re sitting closely together on the sofa, legs overlapping, arms around each other, their bodies relaxed and easy against one another’s. The talking has waned into kissing and murmured utterances of how happy they both are that they’ve finally come to their senses at last. 

Now, John stretches and says that he’s going to put the kettle on. “Also, we haven’t eaten yet,” he points out. “You hungry?” 

He’s moved away, sitting at the edge of the sofa, getting ready to stand up, and Sherlock already misses his proximity. He shrugs. “I suppose,” he says. “It hasn’t occurred to me to want anything other than this since you came home today, honestly.” 

John smiles at him, his face infinitely full of tenderness that he’s never let himself show before today. “Same, actually,” he replies. “But I could eat. What do you feel like? Think it over. I’ll just put on some tea.” 

Sherlock watches him go. “I’m not particular,” he says, and John snorts from the kitchen. 

“Like hell you’re not,” he calls back. “What do you think about maybe Lebanese?” 

Sherlock waits as he turns on the kettle, filling it and then plugging it in and switching it on, then reappearing in the sitting room. He comes back to the sofa and Sherlock reaches for his hand and John takes it, sitting down with him again, his other arm draped around Sherlock’s shoulders. “That could be good,” Sherlock says. “With shish taouk?” 

John leans in and kisses him on the cheek. “With anything you want,” he says, his hand cupping Sherlock’s face in a way that makes him feel so much that he can barely breathe. 

(Who can possibly concentrate on choosing dinner like this?) “Let’s get whatever _you_ want,” Sherlock counters. “We don’t always have to do things my way.” 

John smiles. “But your way has always been to my benefit. I do know that now, you know. Let’s get shish taouk and shawarma and roast potatoes. And some salads.” 

“Tabouleh?” Sherlock asks hopefully. 

“Mmm. Definitely tabouleh,” John confirms, his eyes at half-mast and looking at Sherlock’s lips again. The next time they stop kissing, he asks, his voice low and dreamy, “Do you want me to call?” 

“No. I can,” Sherlock says, attempting to pull himself together. “You’ve already made the tea.” 

“It’ll be cold by the time the food comes,” John warns. 

“Then you can make some more, if we need it,” Sherlock tells him, reaching into his pocket for his phone. 

“Deal, then,” John says. “I think the kettle’s boiling anyway.” 

Sherlock smiles at him and raises the phone to his ear to make the call. 

The food comes forty minutes later, piping hot and delicious. The chicken shish taouk is tender and perfectly spiced, sitting on a bed of fragrant rice next to the lamb/beef shawarma that John loves, a heap of crisply-roasted potatoes alongside, with chickpea and tabouleh salads in their own containers. There’s also hummus and garlic mayo and pita, and it all smells and looks mouth-wateringly good. They arrange it all on plates and eat together at the table, the fire that John built crackling in the fireplace. Afterwards, they retire to their chairs with their books, though Sherlock finds it difficult to concentrate, particularly given that John is wearing his glasses without even having been prompted by him. He’s wearing his own, new frames and catches John glancing over at him more than once. 

When it’s time to go to bed, they put the kitchen in order and turn out the lights, both of them making their way down the corridor toward the bathroom and Sherlock’s bedroom, respectively. John turns off into the bathroom, where he will probably brush his teeth and shave. Sherlock shuts himself in the bedroom, meanwhile, and changes into a pair of pyjama pants and his old blue silk dressing gown, the one John likes the best. He listens and hears the toilet flush, then the sound of water running in the sink, and knocks at the bathroom door.

John calls him in, so Sherlock opens the door and finds John with his face covered in shaving foam. “Just wanted to brush my teeth,” he says. 

John smiles at him in the mirror. “Of course,” he says affably, drawing his razor down over his right cheek. He always starts on the right side, Sherlock notes with affection, as he deduced years ago. 

Sherlock wets his toothbrush and sets about cleaning his teeth, ducking in below John’s razor arm to spit once he’s finished. He rinses the brush, then dries his face and hands and leans back against the doorframe to watch the rest of John’s shave. He’s also got an ulterior motive, but isn’t sure how to word it, specifically. His obvious excuse of Rosie’s presence is absent; Harry and Gwyneth habitually pick her up on Thursdays and keep her overnight, giving John a regular night off from parental duties. Otherwise it might have made for a useful segue. He waits. 

John finishes his shave and washes his face, then turns to Sherlock, who holds out a face towel for him. John takes it and pats his face dry. “How is it?” he asks. 

Sherlock straightens up and runs a finger up the smooth plane of John’s cheek. “Perfect,” he says, then tilts his face a little and kisses him. 

John’s hands come up to hold his upper arms, then slip around his back again as the kiss unfolds between them. Kissing John makes Sherlock feel closer to him than he knew was possible, and he wants still more of it. He combs his fingers through John’s hair, kissing him more deeply still, and John responds in kind, which is thrilling in and of itself. When they finally draw apart, John’s eyes have gone starry and soft, deep blue-grey and filled with tenderness. “Well,” he says, take a long, deep breath. “That’s the best good night kiss I’ve ever had in my life, hands down.” 

Sherlock smiles, but it’s uncertain, in light of what he’s about to awkwardly put into words. “John…” (God, just say it.) Sherlock clears his throat. “Don’t go upstairs. Stay down here tonight. With me.” There. That was actually easier than he thought it would be. 

John searches his eyes for a moment, and then a smile breaks out over his face. “Yeah?” he asks. “You sure?” 

Sherlock nods, feeling relieved. “Very sure.” 

“Thank God!” John’s face is echoing is relief. “I wanted to ask, but then thought maybe I shouldn’t even say anything, unless you brought it up. I’m so glad you did.” 

“John – ” Sherlock reaches for him again and they kiss hard, John’s arms around him at first, but then slipping between them to untie Sherlock’s dressing gown, his hands warm on Sherlock’s bare waist. John himself is still fully clothed, not having gone upstairs yet, so Sherlock finds the buttons of his shirt and works them open, his eyes closed. They get the cuff buttons open jointly, then Sherlock pulls John’s left wrist to his lips and kisses the pulse point almost reverently, his heart pounding again. When he opens his eyes, John’s eyes are so full of emotion that it strikes him in the chest like a physical blow. “What is it?” he asks, hardly daring to. 

John swallows and shakes his head very slightly. “Nothing,” he says, his voice cracking into a whisper. “I just – God. How did it take me so long to get here?” 

“Joint effort,” Sherlock reminds him, trying for a smile, but John’s face is too serious for his attempt at levity. 

“No,” he says, rejecting this. “It’s my fault. I should have seen it sooner. Done something about it sooner. But I’m here now, and I swear to God, I am never leaving you again, Sherlock – ”

He gets no further, because Sherlock swoops in to claim his mouth again, John’s impassioned words setting flame to his heart. They stumble into bed together, the rest of their clothing getting shed rapidly along the way, bedding shoved aside, and then John is above him, moving rhythmically against him, Sherlock arching up off the sheets, hands clutching at any part of John that he can reach. There’s a brief pause as Sherlock reaches into the drawer of his night stand for a palmful of lubricant, and then it starts again, even better than before. Sherlock winds his leg around John’s hip and arse and lets himself go, not filtering his sounds or reactions or need, and it seems to fuel John’s all the more. 

When his climax hits this time, Sherlock’s breath stops, pleasure swimming through his veins and tissues and then flooding out of him and onto John’s skin, and John curses, pants his name, then follow suit, coming before Sherlock has even stopped. 

When Sherlock comes to his senses, John is lying heavily on him, their release mingling between them, hot and wet and sticky, and it’s good. It’s very good. It’s exquisite. There aren’t adequate words to describe it. “I love you,” Sherlock says into the darkness of the room, his heart still thudding heavily in his chest, almost audible. 

John raises his head and looks down into his eyes, and nods, still breathing hard. “I love you, too,” he says, and it’s simple and far more than enough.

Sherlock reaches for John’s face and kisses him as passionately as he knows how, and John doesn’t deny him this, either, and it’s incredible. 

*** 

He wakes with John curled closely in behind him, his erection pressing into the curve of Sherlock’s arse, and this makes him smile, instantly recalling every single thing that happened between them yesterday. John is also snoring, so Sherlock decides not to wake him. However, he needs the toilet, so he carefully extracts himself from John’s grip and eases himself out of bed, taking his phone with him into the bathroom. It’s still early, just after eight. Does John need to be awake for work? Sherlock stands there for a moment after he’s washed his hands, as well as the remnants of last night from his body, wondering about John’s schedule, then realises that it’s already the twenty-fourth of December. Christmas Eve: John’s two clinics are both closed today. Perfect. 

In his hand, his phone begins to ring, echoing off the bathroom tiles, so Sherlock hastens out and down the corridor before answering. It’s his mother. “Hello Mummy,” he says quietly, from the sitting room. 

“Good morning!” she says brightly. “Merry Christmas!” 

“Not quite, but same to you,” Sherlock returns. “What can I do for you?” 

His mother hesitates. “Well, it’s like this: your father just took the notion into his head that it might be nice if you and Mycroft came up today already and stayed over. Prolonged the holiday a little. You know how he loves Christmas,” she says, artfully starting in on the emotional appeal before Sherlock can even invent an excuse. “And we don’t know how many Christmases he’s got left, what with his dicey heart…” 

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “There is nothing whatsoever wrong with Dad’s heart. That said… perhaps. I’ll just have to check.” 

Mummy sounds confused. “With what? The trains? I can assure you that they’re running today, though on whose schedule is anyone’s guess!” 

Before she can get fully wound up into her usual rant on the subject of the many inadequacies of the National Rail, Sherlock answers her question. “Well, you see, I was planning to come up with John and his daughter, since you did invite them. Right now his sister’s got Rosie, and I’m not sure what time they’re bringing her back, or if he’ll want to spend the night. I’m sure he won’t be strongly opposed, but everything is complicated when a small child is involved. I’ll just need to discuss it with him. That’s all.” 

“Oh, I do see,” his mother says. “And then there’d be the question of how many bedrooms and where to put everyone…” 

She trails off, clearly pondering arrangements of the guest room to allow for both an adult and a toddler. Sherlock holds his breath for a moment, then decides to just plunge directly in and tell her. “John can stay with me,” he says curtly. “And Rosie will be fine anywhere. She just needs a cot. The guest room will do for her, unless you’ve got other people coming.” 

He hears his mother’s gasped inhalation. “Well!” The shock wears off and she finds her voice again. “Oh, _Sherlock_! I _am_ pleased! I know Dad will be, too – you know how much we like John, in spite of that dreadful woman he married! Clearly that was a mistake – but when did this start, then? Tell me!” 

“Just yesterday, in fact,” Sherlock says, keeping his voice down and glancing down the corridor toward the bedroom. “It’s – new. Quite new.” 

“But you’re already sharing a bedroom?” Mummy is coy. “Well, when you’ve already wasted this much time, I suppose you’d best just jump right in with both feet, as they say! Oh, darling, I’m so happy for you! This is _wonderful_! All right, then: you chat with your John and let me know what’s what, and what time I can expect the three of you. Just send me a text or something, no need to call. Mycroft’s coming up on the six-eleven train, I believe. Speak soon, then!” 

She hangs up. Sherlock takes a deep breath, then plugs in the kettle. He might as well wake John after all and figure out how everything is going to work. Nude, he sets about making a pot of strong English breakfast, arranges it on a tray, and quietly carries it down the corridor to the bedroom. John is still snoring, softly and regularly, so Sherlock sets the tea tray down on his dresser and gets carefully back into bed, curling on his side to watch John. 

John stirs immediately, though, blinking sleepily until he sees Sherlock, and then he smiles, still waking. “It wasn’t just a dream, then,” he says, his voice croaky from sleep. “You’re still here.” 

Sherlock smiles back, touching the backs of his fingers to John’s. “You mean, you’re still _here_.” 

John looks around himself, seeming to remember that he’s in Sherlock’s bed. “Oh yeah,” he says. He yawns and stretches, then shifts himself closer to Sherlock. “Mmm. You’re warm.” 

Sherlock puts his arm around John and draws him closer still. “I made tea,” he says. 

John makes an interested sound, but his eyes are closed again. “In a moment,” he says. “Tea can’t compete with this. With waking up with you for the first time.” 

“Likewise,” Sherlock says, wondering how it’s so easy for John to just say these things and whether he’ll ever be able to be as free. 

John opens his eyes then, then lifts his chin and kisses Sherlock, and it stops mattering. John tastes sleepy, too, and Sherlock decides that he likes it. After a few moments, however, John looks down between them at himself. “Oh God, I’m disgusting,” he says, meaning the dried release striped up his torso and over his genitals. “Hold on a minute. Let me just go and get myself cleaned up. Did you already – ?”

Sherlock nods. “Take your time,” he says, not wanting John to feel badly about his state. After all, he woke up the same way. 

“I’ll be right back.” John presses another kiss to his mouth, then rolls out of bed and hurries into the bathroom. 

Sherlock listens to him shamelessly, then glances down at his own erection, pushing visibly up from beneath the covers. Practically everything John does is a stimulus at this point, but anticipation has to account for over fifty percent of it in this particular instance. 

The bathroom door opens and John comes out, naked and very hard, his erection stained a deep crimson in contrast to the rest of his winter-pale skin, and seeing it for the first time, seeing it for real, is so arousing as to render Sherlock genuinely speechless for several seconds. All he knows is that he desires John more than anything, and that he absolutely must touch his penis as soon as humanly possible. More than touch: taste. Lick. Suck. And soon, very soon, have John within him in any way he can devise. He’s staring, he knows. “Come here,” he says, unable to tear his fascinated eyes from John’s erection. 

John complies willingly, getting back into bed with a smile. “Done and done.” 

Sherlock crawls over to him, onto him, and bends to devour his mouth, and John’s hands come up to pull him together, pull their bodies flush again, but Sherlock has other ideas. He sucks at John’s mouth as though taking strength from it, then shifts lower, biting at John’s chest, lower teeth scraping along John’s sensitive rib cage, tongue massaging over the softness of his belly, tracing the sensual line of his pelvis until his nose is pushing into the underside of the erection lying flat up against John’s abdomen and following it with his tongue. He’s never done this before, or had it done to him, but instinct seems to be serving just fine as a guide right now. John inhales sharply when Sherlock’s tongue licks him from root to tip, then comes out in a moan as Sherlock’s lips close around the head and begin to taste him, delicately at first, then with increasing boldness. He sucks at the head, then presses his tongue into the underside, feeling a thick vein pulsing against it. He touches, his hands fascinated and unable to censor their curiosity, rubbing here or there, testing for John’s very-vocal reactions, and sucks his penis all the while, his head bobbing down over it. John is thrusting into his mouth, just a little, and Sherlock absorbs the kinetic information and adjusts his speed and intensity, his hands fully under John now, gripping his arse and pulling him even deeper into his mouth. 

John’s legs are twitching, thighs trembling, and then his right leg jerks and clamps around him, his voice trying to stutter out a warning, but Sherlock pays no attention to this and sucks harder, using his tongue to his best of his ability and John shouts out, bucks, and comes so hard that Sherlock doesn’t even taste it, John’s erection so far down his throat that his nose is pressing into John’s body. He pulls off slowly, clears his throat, and continues to suck at John’s head as it shudders out the last few drops. His own erection is aching, the ache settling deep in his testicles and swelling them out away from his body. “My God,” John pants. “You’re incredible, Sherlock, absolutely mind-blowing – ”

Sherlock makes a sound that could be charitably described as keening, and doesn’t protest as John hauls him up to kiss him feverishly, his hand finding the unbearable hardness between Sherlock’s legs and already jerking him hard. Sherlock pants and moans and squeezes his eyes shut as the pleasure builds to intolerable new levels, unable to even try to pace it or hold back in any way as it overtakes him entirely, howling out his body and mouth both, his body discharging in a wet rush all over John, who doesn’t seem to care at all, teeth and tongue and lips on Sherlock’s neck. When it’s finally over, Sherlock feels dazed, coming to himself with John’s fingers in his hair, stroking through his curls almost obsessively, and Sherlock sees another large piece of it clearly at last: that John truly feels as much for him as Sherlock does for him. 

They lie there together, coming down in each other’s arms, until John finally stops kissing him and says, “You made tea, you said?” 

Sherlock’s laugh comes out his nose. “I’d forgotten,” he admits. “Such is the power of your influence over me.” 

John grins. “I’ll get it.” 

“No. Let me.” Sherlock coaxes his legs into functioning again and gets out of the bed, collecting the tray and bringing it back. Once they’ve both got their cups organised, he sets the tray down on the floor and they drink their tea sitting up against the pillows, John’s fingers woven through his. “My mother called,” Sherlock says. “She was wondering if we might be willing to come up today. This afternoon or evening. I said I’d talk it over with you and let her know.” 

“All of us?” John asks curiously, sipping his tea. 

“Yes. You, me, and Rosie,” Sherlock tells him, waiting to see John’s reaction. Truth be told, he can reluctantly admit to himself that he would rather like to show off their newfound status to his family, appalling as he would find it to ever say that aloud. 

John looks at him. “Does she know about us?” he asks, very directly. “Did you tell her?” 

This feels a bit like a test. “I did,” Sherlock says. “It – came up, when she was trying to figure out bedroom arrangements. I told her we’d only be needing one for the two of us.” 

John’s entire face glows. “Did you?” His fingers tighten and he clears his throat. “That’s – wow. Thank you for doing that. For not denying it.” 

“I _want_ them to know,” Sherlock says, the confession less embarrassing than he’d thought it might be. “I want everyone to know.” 

“Me too, Sherlock. I feel the exact same way.” John beams. “Yeah. Okay. Let’s do that. Christmas at your parents’. And then we’ll be back here after, on our own.” 

“With Rosie,” Sherlock reminds him. 

“Right. Of course,” John says. 

Sherlock hesitates, wondering again how this might change things in terms of whatever John’s expectations or hopes might be with regards to himself and Rosie’s interactions. Not now. Not yet, when everything else is still so tremblingly new between them. “When are Harry and Gwyneth bringing her back?” he asks instead. 

“Around one, Harry said. Gwyn’s bringing her after the morning session at daycare. Is that enough time for us to get there?” John asks. 

“More than enough,” Sherlock assures him. “My mother said that Mycroft is taking the train at six or so. Let’s go a little earlier, so that they can have their reaction without him there to rain on everything.” 

“Agreed,” John says instantly. “Though honestly, I’m rather looking forward to seeing his face when he finds out.” 

Sherlock grins. “Come to think of it, so I am.” He leans over and kisses John. “In that case, perhaps we should get moving. Have breakfast, pack a bag, shower, and so forth.” 

“You need to tell your mother,” John reminds him. “You choose the train. I’m happy with whatever you want.” 

Sherlock sets his tea down carefully on the night table, then shifts closer to John, leaning in to kiss him again. “You really mean that, don’t you?” he says, unable to keep the wonder from his voice. 

John smiles into his eyes. “Yeah,” he says, his voice just a bit tight. “I really, really do.” 

*** 

Their bags are packed and sitting at the top of the stairs, ready to go. Gwyneth brought Rosie home just after one, as promised, and Rosie was promptly put down for a nap. Now she’s awake, though, which is all they’ve been waiting for. They could have woken her, as John pointed out, but her mood is sure to be improved by waking up when her nap comes to its natural end, and they’d all prefer a cheerful toddler than a fussing one, they agreed. 

Her voice comes through over the monitor, and John folds the _Times_ and sets it aside. “She’s up,” he says with relief. “I’ll just pop up and get her.” 

“I can, if you like,” Sherlock says. He was waiting for this precise opportunity. 

John looks over at him in surprise. “All right, then, if you’re sure,” he says. “I was going to put her in the red dress that’s on my dresser up there. And she might need a changing. Sure you wouldn’t rather I went?” 

“No, I’d like to,” Sherlock says firmly. He gets out of his armchair and jogs up the stairs, aware of John’s astonished eyes following him. Rosie is standing up in her cot, babbling to herself when he arrives. She knows him, but isn’t accustomed to being retrieved from her naps by him, so she stares a little. “Hello,” Sherlock says softly to her. He glances at the monitor. If he keeps his voice down, John probably won’t be able to hear his precise words. “Awake, are you?” he adds. He picks her up and she doesn’t protest. “How’s your nappy?” he asks her. “Should we give it a check? Are you wet?” A sniff and a squeeze prove that she’s actually fine, so that’s one obstacle eliminated. He efficiently strips her out of her sleeping onesie and dresses her in the festive red dress John mentioned, Mrs Hudson’s Christmas gift to her goddaughter.

Sherlock checks that the zip is done and the bows tied just so, fastens black patent leather shoes to her small feet, then holds his love’s daughter at arm’s length, standing her up on the dresser. “You’re too little to understand this, but just listen for a moment,” he tells her, his voice low and intense. “I love your father. I’ve loved him for longer than you’ve been alive, and now we’re all here together. So you and I, we’ve got to figure this thing out. For him. How about it, then? Should we give this a go?” 

He studies the child, but she just blinks at him with wide blue eyes that are thankfully far more like John’s than like Mary’s. “I’ll take that as a yes, then,” Sherlock decides. He picks her up and braces her against his side, something which he’s done many times before, but this time it’s different. 

It’s going to be all right, he thinks, descending the stairs to where John is waiting for them. Because it’s Christmas: Christmas, and John is home to stay. 

*

**Author's Note:**

> Due to many requests for this, I have posted the full and detailed recipe for how to make this boeuf bourguignon (my own recipe!) on my tumblr, here: http://silentauroriamthereal.tumblr.com/post/181527085660/boeuf-bourguignon


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